Dead Skin
by Room304
Summary: My answer to the show never bringing up the explosion again. A case on Christmas stirs up some painful memories for Greg. saragreg fic set in early season fiveFINALLY FINISHED
1. Default Chapter

_So I'm the king of all these things  
Of this mess I have made  
Such a waste  
What a shame  
My whole life is a fake  
Well I'm a bore and I'm sure  
I'm a thorn inside of you  
That has torn at you for years_

She hated this time of year. It was the few days right before the new year when everything darkened. Daylight savings time already passed and she was granted that extra hour in the afternoons, an our that seemed prolonged, dreary. She felt as if she should be doing something with that extra hour, something she dreaded but couldn't figure out.

It was that month where all the greens and golds of nature finally faded out, with nothing but the dismal greys and browns that signified events to come. Since the beginning of November, everywhere she went, whether it was the grocery store, a coffee shop or even the crime lab, was covered with those tiny white blinking lights and those fake mini Christmas trees. She hated Christmas.

As she walked into the crime lab that morning, bundled in her gigantic black coat, she had the urge to throw that small tree on the receptionist's desk into the wall. Breezing past the few technicians that were roaming the basically empty halls, she hurried to the break room. She threw her lunch into the fridge, slamming the door for good measure, before collapsing onto the couch. She could already tell today was going to blow.

She stretched out on the couch and sighed at the shitty-ness of her day. It wasn't until this time that she noticed the other person in the room. Greg was perched at the table, staring at her with bewilderment present in his expression. Judging by the opened magazine and the coffee mug on the table in front of him, he had been catching up on a little reading and a coffee break before shift, only to be distracted by the spectacle that was Sara.

"So," he broke the ice with a smirk. " How did you get stuck working on Christmas eve?"

"I don't celebrate holidays that have become nothing more than a capitalistic attempt to boost our nation's economy by preying on the stupid people who buy into all of the commercial shit like trees and eggnog and those damn blinking lights."

"How can you not like eggnog?"

"It tastes like eggs. I hate eggs."

"Oh". He paused, letting the awkward silence take over for a few minutes before he continued. "So Sara," he began, nerves evident as he tapped a pen repeatedly on the table. "What do you say to breakfast after shift? I'll pay and we can pay homage to the capitalists by ripping down all of the holiday decorations we see."

She snorted, which was always a bad sign. "Alright." She didn't look at him.

His fresh sip of coffee was almost spewed all over the floor. "Really?"

Despite the small pang of guilt she felt once hearing the excitement in his voice, she grinned. "No". Although his ego was a little crushed, it didn't stop him from jokingly tossing his pen at her. Sara was interrupted from her pending protest when Grissom stuck his head into the room. Sara quickly jumped up into a sitting position.

"Sara, we've got a 419 a few miles from here. Teenager was shot in his own home." He turned to leave, but whipped his head around as a second thought hit him. "Greg, you come too."

Sara turned to face Greg. "You ready for this?" The delight that shone through his eyes left no need for an answer. The grin that spread over his face was infectious and she found herself smiling as she continued. "Well, let's go then."

They met Grissom in the parking lot and the two CSIs quickly began drilling Greg on what to do at the scene, like they did every time he went with them. They lectured him on what he should and should not do, but Greg let none of this phase him. And Sara, as she peered into the backseat at Greg, who was lounging, catlike, across the three seats, noted that he truly did seem calm. His calmness immediately vanished as Grissom yelled at him, telling Greg to buckle up because if he died on the way to the crime scene he would surely lose his job. Greg scrambled to a sitting position the second he heard him yell. It was obvious that Greg looked up to him. He was so nervous whenever he was around him that it made Sara feel a little sorry for him. He always tried so hard to impress Grissom by all that he knew, but every time he ended up letting his nerves get to him and annoyed Grissom in the process.

As Sara and Greg were busy preparing for the scene, Grissom was trying his best to see through the heavy downpour that surrounded his car, a wall separating them from the rest of the world. His feeble headlights tried their hardest to illuminate the pressing darkness, but he didn't know how long they would help. But before they ended up in a ditch or worse, they reached the crime scene.

Sara peered at the house. It was white with a red roof, identical to every other house on the block. If it wasn't for the yellow crime tape, it would have looked quaint, like every other house in suburbia. Inside, despite the fact that it was swarming with police officers, the house looked untouched. A detective led Sara and Greg into the bedroom of the boy, while Grissom stopped in the kitchen to talk to the hysterical mother. As the moldy smell of old blood reached her nose, Sara's stomach jumped and a wave of nausea overtook her. No matter how many scenes she visited, how many murder victims she saw, that smell never got any better. If she ever smelled that scent and did not react, then it was time for her to find a new career.

The boy, who had to be at least eighteen, was draped over his small mattress. From the angle Sara was looking at him from, he looked like he was asleep. But from the look on Greg's face, who was standing right beside bed with a clear view of the body, she knew the teen wasn't just sleeping. Once she was level with Greg she caught sight of the boy's face, or what was left of it. Shotgun to the mouth. Blood and brain matter were splattered on the wall parallel to his bed.

Grissom, who entered the room unnoticed by the group, turned to Greg. "What do you see?"

"Male victim in his teens. Judging by the exit wound, I'd definitely say he was shot." Sara snorted. Greg grinned in her direction and continued. "The position of the spatter suggests that the bullet entered in the back of the throat and that the victim was sitting on the edge of the bed, which explains the way he was lying when we entered the scene. The gun is right there by the bed so I'm thinking suicide."

David, who was standing over the body, whistled mockingly. "Someone's done their homework." Greg laughed sheepishly. "Time of death was anywhere from one to three hours ago."

Grissom took Greg over to the body and began lecturing him about something. Sara took this opportunity to look around the room. She couldn't even guess the color of the walls because band posters covered every free space of the walls. They were bands she never even heard of but she was pretty sure Greg owned CDs by most of them. A surfboard that looked as if it hadn't been used in awhile was hanging over the bed. The giant stereo in the corner was the only non-furniture item in the room.

Grissom, who, after fully lecturing Greg, was walking aimlessly around the room, walked over in her direction.

"The mother said that a year ago today, their family's house burned down. Our victim was badly burned in that fire."He pointed to the body. "Can you see the scars on his face? They also cover his arms and chest. She said he hasn't been the same since."

"I think I found something", Greg's voice echoed from under the bed. "A journal maybe?"

"Do me a favor and read the last entry, alright Greg?"

"Sure" came Greg's muffled reply. He continued in a much clearer voice as he crawled out from under the bed. "It's from yesterday." It was just a regular composition notebook, painted blue with a permanent marker with the words "Hold onto the memories, they're all you've got" scrawled in the only white space on the cover.

Greg cleared his throat and began to read.

"Mom,

I wanted to explain to you why I'm doing this. It's not anything you did, so don't you dare blame yourself. But since that day last year, I've changed. Not just my appearance but everything about me. No one, including you, has treated me the same since that day. You say you were accustomed to waking up in the morning and seeing what was left of me, that you had accepted it and eventually forgot about it. But I saw the looks. The small flicker of horror in you eyes was the first thing that greeted me every morning."

Greg paused and cleared his throat again. He was having a hard time reading this and Sara completely understood - reading the dying words of anyone, even a complete stranger, was tough.

" I can't even hang out with my friends like before. Even the few friends I have left wouldn't be able to take the stares. You've seen the stares I get just going to the grocery store. You've heard the clerks ask me what the hell happened to my face. These scars have isolated me from the rest of the world. I'm alone and I hate it. Do you have any idea what it's like to know that people get disgusted just bylooking at you? It's unbearable. But the loneliness isn't what drove me to this. It's not the looks of horror. It's not the fact that my friends deserted me. It's not that I'm unable to enjoy the things I used to love. It's the scars. They'll be there forever,constantly reminding me of what I've become - - a circus freak from a fucking sideshow act. I just don't want to look in the mirror and have those scars be the first thing I see. Just once I wish I had the opportunity to be normal again."

Greg looked up, meeting Grissom and Sara's stares. "Definitely a suicide then, huh?"

"Suicide?" a voice whimpered. The victim's mother was standing by the door. Sara turned to Grissom, wondering how he would handle the situation.

"Mrs. Smith?" It wasn't Grissom's voice that broke the awkward silence, it was Greg's. He slowly walked over to the door and stood directly in front of the mother, making sure to meet her eye the entire time he talked.

"Mrs. Smith, how long have you been standing there?"

The woman, who was growing progressively older by the second, shivered as she tore her eyes away from her son's body and focused on Greg. Her face was haggard, pale and she opened her mouth as if to reply but she couldn't. She burst into tears and fell into Greg, crying on his shoulder. Through her sobs, Sara could he her muttering "How could he do this?" over and over again. Greg just stood there, trying to hold her up until an officer came to take his place.

The CSIs and Greg loaded up into the dark SUV and drove back to the crime lab soon after that. No one said much the entire way back and Sara sat in the front seat, listening to the rain fall onto the windshield to pass the time until they made it back to the lab.

Sara went about the task of logging the evidence. Many hours and countless fingerprints later, she was finally finished logging all of the evidence from the Smith case. She was walking towards Grissom's office to let him know she was finished but the low rumbling of her stomach changed her destination to the break room fridge. She pulled a cereal bar out of her lunch and bit into it hungrily. She tossed the wrapper in the garbage can only to have her trash spill out onto the blue carpet. The trashcan was overflowing with garbage.

"It figures," she spoke aloud to the empty breakroom. "Even the janitortakes Christmas off." Sara then tied up the bag and carried it out to the dumpster, which was outside the very back of the building. She opened the door and immediately felt the chilling breeze. It was only about 50 degrees but hey, in Vegas it was COLD. The singular black dumpster was propped up against the chipped brick wall as if that solid wall was the only thing that kept it standing. At that very second, the wind blew the lid shut spraying Sara with remnants of trash. She finally lost the last of her sanity and screamed out loud in frustration, kicking the dumpster for good measure. She went to the other side of the dumpster to try and open the lid, only to see Greg leaning against the sturdy brick wall. He was sitting with his knees folded up to his chest and clinging tightly to his thin coat with one arm. In his other hand he held a lit cigarette which he took a slow, deep drag off of before looking up at her. Sara noted that his hand shook around that cigarette.

She walked over and stood next to him, leaving the bag of trash alone by the dumpster.

"Since when do you smoke?"

"Oh," he began with an almost invisible grin, "since I was about fifteen."

"Those things can kill you, you know."

"I'm well aware of that." he said with a laugh

"Why have I never seen you smoke before?" she questioned as she sat down beside him.

"I guess I'm what you would call a closet smoker. I think you're the only person who's ever seen me smoke." He took another drag and exhaled. The two watched the smoke dissipate into the air, mesmerized. His hands still shook and Sara was starting to realize why. She had a feeling that the case got to him more than he let on. Sara looked down at her watch. Their shift ended ten minutes ago.

"Hey Greg, I think breakfast would be a good idea, don't you?"

_I can't get out of this dead skin  
Not sure where to begin  
I can't get under my dead skin  
I can't shed my skin  
Can I sleep till then_

**AN: there is a second part to this story that I hope to have up sometime soon, but it definitely won't be before Christmas so you'll just have to pretend, ok? The song in here is Dead Skin by Crossfade.**

**Please review!**


	2. Carpe Diem

_Somedays, I pray_

_Someone will blow me away_

_Make it quick_

_But let it burn_

_So I can feel my life fade_

_Well I'm a waste_

_And I can taste_

_How bitter I've become_

_And it's more than I can bear_

An hour later, the two were seated across from one another in an overstuffed booth at the back of a twenty-four hour diner, silently sipping their respected cups of coffee and waiting on their meals. It wasn't any place special, just a hole-in-the-wall a couple miles off strip, well known for its anonymity. At six in the morning, it was practically deserted, with about six other couples scattered throughout the open room. Christmas music from a radio behind the counter quietly added to the cadence of the room, shading the deep conversations of the diner's other occupants. Fake greenery strung with blinking Christmas lights ran across the low wall that divided their table from the rest of the world, and Sara found herself staring at those damn lights, cursing them for their ability to annoy the hell out of her and yet leave her utterly transfixed.

Her musings were cut short as their waitress, a robust older woman with wild, crazy white hair and an off-kilter nametag stamped with the letters EDNA, approached their table.

"Two fried eggs with a side of bacon and sausage," Edna said, in a voice that could only be attributed to years of hard alcohol and smoking three packs of cigarettes a day, as she threw the plate down in front of Greg. "And blueberry pancakes for the lady. Now, is there anything else…" a fit of hacking coughs stopped her mid-sentence, as she doubled over and leaned on the table for support, her elbow dangerously close to Sara's plate. About thirty seconds later, her coughing spell ended and Edna walked away from the table, leaving a disgusted Sara and Greg behind.

"Okay, so please explain to me how you can willingly light a cigarette after seeing that?"

"Now I see, this whole taking me to breakfast thing was really just an excuse to launch your anti-smoking campaign," a slight smirk danced on Greg's face for a split second, never reaching his eyes.

She smiled nonetheless, trying to appear lighthearted enough for the both of them. "Well, now you've gotten my ulterior motives all figured out." A brooding, stony silence was his only response. Even though it was obvious that he wasn't in the mood for conversation, Sara kept talking to him, asking him questions.

"So why aren't you at home with your family? I mean, it is Christmas and all."

Greg stopped poking at his eggs and set down his fork. "I could ask you the same question."

"Ah, but I asked you first."

"Well, my mom and I don't really see eye to eye that much anymore. She's" he paused searching for the right words, "a little overbearing, so I try to avoid her by all means necessary. And when I overheard Nick saying how badly he wanted to go back to Texas, I saw my chance for a lecture-free Christmas and I couldn't pass that up." He took a quick swig of his orange juice and fixed his eyes on her smugly. "Now, I believe it's your turn."

"Well," she began, smiling wryly, "my mom and I don't really see eye to eye."

"Oh, now that's just plain mean." He really was smiling now and that distant look was fading from his face. "So are your parents still together then?"

Sara cleared her throat and shifted her weight, obviously unnerved by the question.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to pry, I just-"

"No, it's okay. My dad just—well, he died when I was younger."

Greg didn't give her the shocked look she was expecting, instead giving off nothing but curiosity. "Mine did too."

The two stared at each other for a moment, both realizing just how little they knew about the other. Despite working together for over four years, they really hadn't gotten that close. In fact, this was the first time she'd ever met Greg outside of work.

Sara asked the pending question first. "How did he die?"

"Car accident. He fell asleep at the wheel on his way home from work. Wasn't wearing a seatbelt, so you know how the rest goes."

She nodded and continued with her questioning, although the goal behind her questions had changed. "How old were you?"

"Ten."

"Wow, you were just a little kid. That must have been hard."

Greg nodded, accepting the sincerity of her words. Refusing to suffer the brunt of the questioning any longer, he started hailing his questions at her. "How old were you?"

"Sixteen."

"How did he die?"

She cleared her throat. "He was murdered."

"So that was why you became a CSI then, huh?" Sara had noticed the shift in their question and answer game, but she responded anyway.

"Well, I had an amazing mentor who showed me just how exciting this field could be."

Greg's expression became dark. "Grissom." It was a statement, no question needed.

Sara awkwardly smiled, uncomforted by his tone. "I – it's hard to explain. He helped me out when no one else would, he taught me so much."

"So since your dad died, he became your father figure. Like a dad, right?"

His tone angered her. "Greg, don't–"

He held up his hand apologetically, and flashed a small smile. "I'm sorry, Sar. I'm a little on edge and I didn't mean to take it out on you. It's just been a rough day, you know?"

"Nah, it's okay," she began, feigning lightheartedness, and obviously changed the subject, "I guess I became a CSI because I was always a science nerd."

"No surprise there, I guess some people are just born with the science gene, huh? I mean, I used to be such a nerd –"

"Used to?" she could resist teasing.

"Haha," he sarcastically muttered under his breath. "Anyway, I USED TO be such a nerd in high school. My girlfriend at the time," he sent her a quick smirk, sensing the look of disbelief on her face, "that's right, I had one. Anyway, she used to say that I reminded her of that guy Brian from the movie The Breakfast Club. She used to call me that sometimes. Though, the first time she did, it confused the shit out of me," he paused, remembering. "Just so happened her ex-boyfriend's name was Brian." He finally stopped talking and realized that he had been rambling…he blamed his nerves, or possibly his need to salvage the conversation. "God, I love that movie."

If Sara noticed his nerves, she ignored them and tried to reestablish the lighthearted conversation. "Never seen it."

He shot her a look of horror. "What?"

"I guess I just never got the chance".

"Well, you haven't lived. How could you have been a teenager in the eighties and never watched that movie?"

Sara was cracking up now. "It couldn't have been that good."

Greg raised his right hand in the air, swearing in. "It changed my life." He dropped his arm and grinned. "No, but it really was an—"

"Awesome movie, and my life won't be complete until I see it." She grinned and lifted her coffee cup to her lips, blowing on it before taking a sip. The steam spread across the table, floating across the slowly decreasing space between them. With the recent turn the conversation had taken, she had forgotten the whole purpose of this breakfast and took the turn to get back on topic.

"So how do you feel about today? Everyone's first suicide case is tough," she stated as she set her mug down. "But you handled it amazingly well."

The smallest trace of a blush flickered across Greg's cheeks as he flashed that mega-watt smile for the first time since they'd left the Johnson home.

"Thanks. I just—felt like I—I don't know." Greg shifted his weight and nervously pulled at the sleeves of his dark jacket. "I knew why he did it."

Sara tilted her head, puzzled. "Well, yeah Greg, it's usually easy to uncover if the victim left a note."

"No Sara, I understand why he did it." In that moment, his eyes locked in on hers; she had never noticed just how expressive his eyes were. She felt as if she were literally staring into his soul.

Then suddenly she understood. The explosion at the lab came crashing back into memory, months of suppression finally wearing off. She could hear the glass shattering, could feel the heat of the blast, as if it just happened yesterday. And she remembered the face of Greg, meeting her eyes as his head fell to the ground, falling into unconsciousness.

Suddenly, Sara realized that the conversation was going deeper than she imagined. And she had no idea what to say.

"You know, I though that the worst of this would all be over when I could finally go a whole day without thinking about the…you know…but it's been over a year and I still can't…"

Sara reached over and grabbed his hand, comfortingly. "I know. I still can't enter the lab without it all coming back to me, but I know that in time, it will get better. I mean, I know that it's been over a year, but eventually it'll be just like it never happened. You know what they say: 'Time heals all wounds'. "

Greg drew back. "For you maybe, but how can I ever get over it, when I have to look at what it's done to me every single day for the rest of my life? How can I get past what I have to see every day?"

'_Partial to full thickness burns on 75 percent of his body_'.

"I'm just like Ben, you know. Everything he said, I understood. And I don't blame him. I was…" He stopped and leaned back from the table, away from her, away from the conversation. He ran a hand through his unruly dark hair and smiled at her apologetically.

"I'm saying too much. I'm just…going to stop talking now."

Their plates of food sat off to the side, virtually untouched – which was fine with Greg, because, with the way the conversation was going, he didn't feel much like eating. As awkward as the situation was though, Sara kept on pushing. He understood what she was trying to do, and he appreciated it, but the whole situation was just…bizarre.

"Greg, come on. You know that only future serial killers keep their emotions this bottled up." Sara smiled encouragingly as her thumb traced the lines on the inside of his palm. "So spill."

A final tight squeeze and then Greg released her hand gently. With the reserved look he sent her, Sara felt that the conversation was over. And she was right. Moments later, Edna was back, collecting their bills. Still hacking, of course.

Neither said a word as they waited for their change. Sara began flicking the Christmas light closest to her, hitting it with her index finger each time the light blinked.

"Is it supposed to be this hard?" his voice was barely a whisper and he refused to meet her eyes, instead staring blankly into the illuminated greenery.

"Well," she began feigning lightheartedness, "you're asking this to a woman with obvious daddy issues who's never seen The Breakfast Club. I'm probably not the best person to ask. I might be a little cynical." Greg snorted. "Ok, a lot cynical, but God Greg, today you've almost got me beat. I don't even think I was this bad at your age. Just imagine how bad you'll be when you hit thirty."

Greg burst out laughing, and for a moment, the bright-eyed young man she knew was back. "Just how old do you think I am?"

"I don't know, about twenty-five, twenty-six." Sara smiled, puzzled as to what was so funny.

"Well," Greg broke his intense eye contact with the Christmas lights and smirked at her. "I'm thirty-one."

"Really?"

He leaned over the table toward her, truly smiling now. "Yeah, so now you can date me without feeling like you're robbing the cradle, right?"

She pursed her lips in mock seriousness, ready to respond, but was cut off as old Edna walked back with their change, and something else that she had hidden behind her back.

"You were lookin a little mopey there sweetie, so I thought this'd cheer you up. Merry Christmas, hun," she said as she pulled out the mystery item – a Santa hat – and placed it on Sara's head. With a wink toward Greg, who was giggling like a little girl, she turned and walked away.

Sara immediately moved to take it off, but Greg stopped her. "Come on, Sara. It's Christmas. Plus, it looks cute." He pleaded, cheekily winking at her. Sara could feel her face unexpectedly blushing, something that threw her completely off guard.

Once the duo made it outside the diner, Greg pulled out a cigarette and lit it. Taking a seat on a nearby bench, he inhaled deeply, enjoying the slight burn and slight lightheadedness after the first drag.

"Did you learn nothing from meeting Edna?"

"I think I'd have to smoke a hell of a lot more cigarettes to sound like Edna," he leaned over, pressing his elbows into his knees, and stared at the bustling street in front of him.

Sara walked over to him and stopped directly behind him, leaning on the back of the bench for support. Somehow, she couldn't find it in her to sit beside him – he was no longer the coworker she'd known for years, he felt like a stranger. She looked down to take in this familiar stranger, and, pulled back in horror.

The neck of Greg's shirt had gaped out in his current sitting position, and peeking out of the top of his shirt like distorted spider webs, were Greg's everyday reminders of the explosion. She realized how dumb it was of her to believe that he survived the explosion without a mark, but, once the bandages came off his face with nothing left behind, she assumed it would be the same for the rest of his burns. Out of sight, out of mind, you know. But now she was face to face with the explanation for Greg's reaction to the Johnson suicide, and she felt like an oblivious idiot.

At that moment, Greg turned to face her. "You can sit by me, you know. I swear I won't blow smoke on you."

"I just want to thank you for this." Greg stated once she had joined him on the bench.

"Oh please, I didn't do anything except bombard you with hundreds of questions and take you to breakfast at a diner with greasy food."

"No," he began as he reached to straighten her Santa hat. "You made me forget about everything else for a while." He lowered his hand from her hat, now brushing her hair out of her face. "And remember that everything else isn't that big of a deal." He dropped his hand and turned forward. "I mean, I always forgot that the essential outcome of the explosion was that I survived it. Sure it left me a little different than I was before, sure it freaks people out when they see it, sure I can't go to the beach without an over shirt anymore, but that's nothing when you compare it to the face that I'm still alive." He exhaled, and the duo once again watched the smoke spread throughout the winter air, "I only wish Ben had figured that out sooner."

Sara patted his thigh, "I do too."

"I wish that he had someone like you in his life, someone who could always tell when something was wrong in his life and could make him feel as if his life was suddenly worth living."

Greg paused, thinking he'd said too much.

She smiled and met his eyes. "Greg, is this the part where you tell me that I make you feel alive again?" Greg's nervous laugh was cut short as Sara continued talking.

"You know, I still haven't seen The Breakfast Club, and it sounds like my life is wasted unless I do. Do you have a copy of it?"

Greg gave a short nod.

"Your house isn't too far from here, let's drive over there and watch it, what do you say? I mean, I can think of nothing better to do on Christmas, can you?"

_And I'm a bore and I'm sure_

_I'm a thorn inside of you_

_That has torn at you for years_

_The alcohol, the Demerol _

_These two never could replace_

_What a minute with you could do_

_To put a smile on my face_

AN: Okay, this has to be the longest time without an update in the history of CSI fan fiction…I think it was about two years? This story just stuck in my head and I just HAD to complete it. Anyway, it's finished, and I hope you all have a VERY MERRY CHRISTMAS! Please review!


End file.
